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    Short Stories by Anton Chekhov, Volume 2: Talent and Other Stories
    Short Stories by Anton Chekhov, Volume 2: Talent and Other Stories
    Short Stories by Anton Chekhov, Volume 2: Talent and Other Stories
    Ebook39 pages36 minutes

    Short Stories by Anton Chekhov, Volume 2: Talent and Other Stories

    By Anton Chekhov

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    About this ebook

    A collection of Chekhov's short stories featuring: Talent, Anyuta, The Helpmate, Ivan Matveyitch, Polinka. These stories are rich in characterisation and represent brilliantly observed slices of life. They don’t come to an end, they just peter out inconclusively leaving you to draw your own conclusions.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherInteractive Media
    Release dateJun 15, 2010
    ISBN9781907832017
    Short Stories by Anton Chekhov, Volume 2: Talent and Other Stories
    Author

    Anton Chekhov

    Anton Chekhov was born in 1860 in Southern Russia and moved to Moscow to study medicine. Whilst at university he sold short stories and sketches to magazines to raise money to support his family. His success and acclaim grew as both a writer of fiction and of plays whilst he continued to practice medicine. Ill health forced him to move from his country estate near Moscow to Yalta where he wrote some of his most famous work, and it was there that he married actress Olga Knipper. He died from tuberculosis in 1904.

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      Book preview

      Short Stories by Anton Chekhov, Volume 2 - Anton Chekhov

      Anton Chekhov

      Anton Chekhov

      Short Stories by Anton Chekhov

      Talent and Other Stories

      New Edition

      New Edition

      Published by Sovereign Classic

      This Edition

      First published in 2020

      Copyright © 2020 Sovereign

      All Rights Reserved.

      ISBN: 9781907832017

      Contents

      TALENT

      ANYUTA

      THE HELPMATE

      IVAN MATVEYICH

      POLINKA

      TALENT

      AN artist called Yegor Savvitch, who was spending his summer holidays at the house of an officer’s widow, was sitting on his bed, given up to the depression of morning. It was beginning to look like autumn out of doors. Heavy, clumsy clouds covered the sky in thick layers; there was a cold, piercing wind, and with a plaintive wail the trees were all bending on one side. He could see the yellow leaves whirling round in the air and on the earth. Farewell, summer! This melancholy of nature is beautiful and poetical in its own way, when it is looked at with the eyes of an artist, but Yegor Savvitch was in no humour to see beauty. He was devoured by boredom and his only consolation was the thought that by to-morrow he would not be there. The bed, the chairs, the tables, the floor, were all heaped up with cushions, crumpled bed-clothes, boxes. The floor had not been swept, the cotton curtains had been taken down from the windows. Next day he was moving, to town.

      His landlady, the widow, was out. She had gone off somewhere to hire horses and carts to move next day to town. Profiting by the absence of her severe mamma, her daughter Katya, aged twenty, had for a long time been sitting in the young man’s room. Next day the painter was going away, and she had a great deal to say to him. She kept talking, talking, and yet she felt that she had not said a tenth of what she wanted to say. With her eyes full of tears, she gazed at his shaggy head, gazed at it with rapture and sadness. And Yegor Savvitch was shaggy to a hideous extent, so that he looked like a wild animal. His hair hung down to his shoulder-blades, his beard grew from his neck, from his nostrils, from his ears; his eyes were lost under his thick overhanging brows. It was all so thick, so matted, that if a fly or a beetle had been caught in his hair, it would never have found its way out of this enchanted thicket. Yegor Savvitch listened to Katya, yawning. He was tired. When Katya began whimpering, he looked severely at her from his overhanging eyebrows, frowned, and said in a heavy, deep bass:

      I cannot marry.

      Why not? Katya asked softly.

      Because for a painter, and in fact any man who lives for art, marriage is out of the question. An artist must be free.

      But in what way should I hinder you, Yegor Savvitch?

      "I

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